dub the frequencies of love
by transemacabre
Summary: De-anon from the kink meme. Alaska's other dad isn't there for his eighth birthday - so Alaska reasons that if Russia can't come to him, he'll go to Russia. America reacts as expected.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: dub the frequencies of love  
><strong>Author<strong>: Mipp  
><strong>Genre<strong>: Domestic/Adventure/Angst?  
><strong>RatingWarnings**: T for Teen, to be on the safe side. Implied past mpreg, misadventurers with alien technology, little kid OCs, hints of dark themes. This is set in the 1960s, so there's some anti-Communist rhetoric from America. This is actually about as safe and heartwarming as I come.  
><strong>Summary<strong>: De-anon from the kink meme. Alaska's other dad isn't there for his eighth birthday - so Alaska reasons that if Russia can't come to him, he'll go to Russia. America reacts as expected.

**dub the frequencies of love**

"Dad? Wake up, Dad."

"Mmmm?" America cracked open one eye, blinked hard, then cautiously opened the other to look up at the earnest, hopeful face of his youngest son. "Is it morning already?" America mumbled as he sat up in the bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The cold air stung his skin; he wanted nothing more than to dive back beneath his warm, comforting blankets.

Alaska snuggled closer to him, his tiny but warm body molding to America's own. "It's my birthday today, Dad," he reminded America in his soft little voice.

America kissed the top of his head and ruffled Alaska's hair fondly. "It sure is," he agreed. "What would you like for breakfast? Pancakes?"

"With blueberries?" Alaska's eyes lit up.

"With blueberries!"

America stretched, then climbed from the bed. Alaska held up his arms to be picked up, and America obliged. Still clad in their pajamas, they headed for the kitchen.

"Hawaii's still asleep," Alaska told America as they padded down the stairs.

"That's okay," America said. "She can sleep for awhile longer. This morning will just be you and me, right?"

Alaska nuzzled his face to America's chest. America felt a little pang; Alaska and Hawaii had been born almost nine months apart, so for Alaska's entire life it had never been just him and America. Even when Hawaii wasn't demanding attention there was always something - some crisis, some meeting, somewhere to be, something that needed doing. To steal a few hours for his son's birthday where it could be just the two of them... it wasn't fair to Alaska that so little time had been made for him.

As they entered the kitchen, America swung Alaska up, up, up then brought him down and rubbed their cheeks together, first the left side and then the right. Alaska squealed and wiggled. "Your face is scratchy, Dad!" he said, before giggling helplessly.

America rubbed at his unshaven face. "Maybe I'm turning into a beast!" He growled to hear Alaska giggle again. "Hey, that reminds me..." He sat his son down in a chair, then turned to open one of the top cabinets. He pulled out a box with a big red bow. "Your uncle Canada found this for you, so when you see him next time you gotta tell him what?"

"That I love him _this much_!" Alaska cried, flinging his arms out as wide as they would go. He looked so adorable in his pajamas with his tossled fair hair that America couldn't resist giving him the box with the big red bow right then and there.

"Happy birthday, kiddo," America said as he dropped to one knee and kissed Alaska on the cheek.

Alaska was so excited to tear open the gift that he didn't think to kiss America back or tell him 'thank you.' Bits of brightly colored wrapping paper flew into the air as Alaska tore open the the box and popped the lid off. "Oh!" Alaska gasped as he looked into the box, his eyes wide.

"Do you like it?" America asked anxiously.

Alaska pulled out a soft brown stuffed bear, then clutched it to his chest. "I love it!" he told America, his little hands caressing the fake fur. "Uncle Canada got me this?"

"He sure did. It's a Russian brown bear."

"A Russian brown bear," Alaska repeated, and then he snuggled the toy to his chest. Ever since he could talk, Alaska would beg America for gifts from "my papa's country". He was mad for anything Russian, anything that could remind him of the father he'd never met. It drove America crazy trying to find him something appropriately Russian for a gift. Last year he'd even bought Alaska some of those little Russian nesting dolls, expecting that they would be played with once and then stuck in their box and forgotten, but surprisingly Alaska kept them in a place of honor on his desk and handled them with more gentleness than one would expect from a seven-year-old boy.

"What's my papa's human name?" Alaska asked.

"Ivan."

"Then that's my bear's name, too," declared Alaska. He hugged the bear and examined its button eyes and pinched its soft little ears while America clattered about with the stove and pancake batter. As he poured the batter onto the smoking skillet, America stole glances at his son and Ivan-bear, and felt another pang.

His other children all knew their fathers (or mother, in the case of the half-dozen he'd had with Mexico); in fact, their other parents often quarrelled over them, bragging about who's children were the most beautiful, the smartest, the most talented. Only America played no favorites - only he had to love them all equally. But it was only Alaska that he had to love enough for two.

It wasn't that he regretted keeping Russia away from Alaska - what was he supposed to do, anyway? Let Russia rock Alaska's cradle with one hand while keeping the other hovering over the red button? But no matter how much America hated Russia - hated his evil, paranoid, red red red politics - he wouldn't turn Alaska against Russia. He wouldn't teach their son to hate him. He wondered if things had been different, if Russia would've been as considerate.

Alaska sat up eagerly in his chair as America approached with blueberry pancakes. Ivan-bear remained in his lap, the red bow adorning his neck. Even as Alaska grabbed for his fork, he asked, "You did send my papa my letter, right?"

"I sure did," America assured him, placing a stack of pancakes on Alaska's plate. "Santa Claus promised it'd get to him by his Christmas." Finland didn't particularly _like _carrying Alaska's yearly letters to Russia, but America trusted him to get them there.

Alaska rested his chin on his hand. "Do you think he'll write me back this year?"

"I dunno, kiddo," said America softly. "I know he wants to. But you know the Communists won't let him, just like they won't let him come visit you."

"But one day he will, right?" Alaska asked, looking up at his parent anxiously. "When the Communists are gone?"

"One day," America told him. After a moment he cleared his throat and said, "C'mon, dig in. Our pancakes are getting cold!"

Alaska smiled. "Not awesome!"

They ate their breakfast, America only half paying attention to his food. Instead, he studied his son, marveling that it had been eight years already. His little ones aged at almost the same rate as human children until their aging stalled out at about sixteen or seventeen (his eldest, Virginia, could pass for America's twin sister) but that meant was that childhood was as fleeting for their kind as it was for humans.

America had forty-nine other children living, and he knew every one of them in ways that only a parent could know them. With the memory of an immortal, he could recall exactly the scent of their skin as babies; the many scrapes he had kissed away for teary-eyed toddlers; and each and every first word. He even had abilities no human parent had ever been blessed with - America had known the moment each of his children had been conceived, and even now, if he closed his eyes and concentrated, he could feel in his bones where each of them was standing on this earth.

But even so, this youngest son of his was, in some ways, a mystery even to him. From time to time Alaska would go quiet and tilt his head to the side, as though listening to the faraway sound of one of his Snowy Owls flying on hushed wings over the tundra. All of America's other children had been born roaring like lion cubs, waving their tiny fists in indignation, but Alaska had come into this world blue and silent.

A polite rapping at the door, and Alaska looked up from his plate. "I think that's Hawaii's dad," he said.

America checked his watch. "Right on time."

"I'll let him in," Alaska said, hopping from his chair and bounding for the door.

Alaska had always been fascinated with Japan, the only one among his siblings' fathers who visited their home regularly (in all fairness, this was because his other siblings lived in their own homes now, and were visited by their fathers there). When he was very little, Alaska had thought Japan, with his delicate features and long kimono, was a girl and had called him "Miss Japan" until America, laughing, finally convinced him that Japan was Hawaii's dad and not her mother.

Sure enough, Japan was standing at the door. "Good morning, _obo-chan_," he told Alaska, with a polite nod of the head.

"G'morning, Mr. Japan," Alaska replied. "Are you here to pick up Hawaii?"

"I am," Japan replied. America waved at him, and Japan responded with a bow.

"Hey, let's go get dressed," America said, taking Alaska by the hand. "Japan is taking Hawaii for the day, so you and me are going ice-skating."

"Really?" Alaska's eyes lit up. "Can I bring Ivan?"

Japan's brow quirked slightly, which for him was a sign of great dismay. America chuckled softly and said, "Ivan is the name of the bear."

"I... see."

"Dad, can I?" pleaded Alaska, plucking at America's sleeve.

"He can ride in the car," America promised him as they made their way back upstairs, followed by Japan. "But he can't go on the ice."

"Awww," Alaska pouted. He patted Ivan-bear on the head, as though consoling him.

Japan disappeared into Hawaii's room, and a few moments later America and Alaska heard her shriek of delight. "_Otou-san_!" Although he couldn't see them, America knew that right now his youngest daughter had thrown her arms around Japan's neck, her little feet dangling as Japan lifted her out of her bed.

Alaska's pout had deepened into a frown, and he clutched Ivan-bear to him. America, who could read no one but for his children, saw the look on Alaska's face was not so much jealously as longing for something which he'd never had.

Quickly he caught the boy up in his arms, babbling something ridiculous about all the ice-skating they were going to do, and carried him into his bedroom to change. They bundled into scarves and mittens and coats (even Ivan-bear wore a tiny coat borrowed from one of Hawaii's dolls) and after exchanging good mornings and happy birthdays and goodbyes with Japan and Hawaii, they piled into America's car.

"Dad," Alaska said as America buckled him in, "if my papa can't come to see me, could I go to visit him?"

America stuck the key in the ignition, silently cursing Russia for putting him in this position, faced with a child's innocent question without an easy answer. "Kiddo, I don't think that's a good idea."

"Because of the communists?"

"Yeah. They won't let you see him, and even if they did, they wouldn't let you come back home. They'd make you stay there and use you for - for propaganda." America slowly backed out of their driveway and into the street, glancing from the rear-view mirror to his son's face every few seconds.

Alaska's face crumpled. "Why do they have to ruin everything?" he said. "Why doesn't my papa get rid of them?"

"He's trying, he's been trying for a long time," America lied. "Communism is like an infection. It's like he's been sick for years and years, since even before you were born. That's why we have to be so vigilant when it comes to communism, because it spreads like a disease."

Alaska took a deep breath and held it for a few moments. "Okay," he said, and then in a softer voice that America couldn't hear over the traffic, "but what if the communists didn't know I was there?"

They parked beside a frozen lake surrounded by trees groaning under their burdens of snow. America was glad to see they were the only people there; his children liked playing with human kids, but being around humans always meant uncomfortable questions and having to remind his little states to call him "Alfred". One consequence of his eternal youth was that he didn't look old enough to buy a beer, much less be the parent of a school-aged child. Long ago, back in 1822, when America had six children under the age of seven, he had tried growing a beard to look older, but only succeeded in looking like a youth with wispy facial hair.

Alaska was first on the ice, as always; he had the natural ability of one born to skate. America glided after him, laughing as Alaska skated circles around him and even slid through his legs. Alaska grinned ear to ear, his cheeks very red, clearly having the time of his life. The only sounds were their voices and the hiss of skates on ice.

When they were both too tired to skate any more, America and Alaska sat on the edge of the lake, side by side, tugging loose laces and pulling off one another's hats to see their hair stick up every-which-way. Alaska was so tuckered out that America ended up carrying him to the car, buckling him in next to Ivan-bear.

"Dad," Alaska said, then paused to yawn. "This was the best birthday ever."

"Thanks, kiddo," America told him, pinching Alaska's nose to see him wrinkle it in response. America had nightmares sometimes about Russia meeting Alaska and saying vicious, evil things to him, saying that Alaska wasn't his, that he didn't love him - but God, Alaska even had Russia's nose. There was no denying him.

Alaska dozed off before he even got the car cranked back up, Ivan-bear snug in his lap, his pale lashes touching his cheeks. America sighed as he began the drive back home._ Russia, you don't know what you're missing out on_.

They pulled into the driveway to see a large box, almost ten feet high and six feet wide, sitting on the front lawn of America's house. Alaska yawned as America unbuckled him and woke him up, and then he gaped in amazement. "What's that?"

"Something Tony's been working on," America said, sitting Alaska down and prying open the front of the box. "It's an experimental weather balloon, using alien technology to make it undetectable by radar - wow! Look at it!"

'It' was a cylindrical tube with an end that swung open to reveal a compartment filled with buttons and screens. This, America explained, was where all the specialized equipment would go eventually. "This is just the prototype," he said. "But it's amazing! Look, these tubes connect to this foil stuff here to inflate it - that's the balloon. It'll go higher and stay aloft longer than any other balloon."

"But why does it need to be undetectable?" Alaska asked, peering inside. He was small enough to crawl into the compartment and examine all the buttons and switches.

"Because sometimes balloons like this fly into hostile territory," America went on. "And we don't want someone thinking its a spy plane and shooting it down... hey look, these vents allow us to control its movement. The onboard computer can make the balloon navigate! Tony really outdid himself with this one."

Alaska crawled back out of the compartment. "How far can it go?"

"This prototype can manage an Atlantic crossing, or at least that's what Tony thinks," America said proudly as he closed the box again. "We'll be able to track hurricanes in the ocean!"

America with his super-strength easily carried the box into the garage for safe-keeping, and with that safely stored they headed inside the house.

In the living room, they found Japan and Hawaii on the sofa, watching Captain Kangaroo. Or at least they had been, as Japan and Hawaii had fallen asleep in one another's arms, Hawaii sprawled across Japan's lap, her head tucked under his chin, Japan curled around her protectively. In sleep, father and daughter had the same serene expressions.

America tiptoed over and turned off the television, then felt a little hand plucking at his sleeve. Alaska took his hand and whispered, "I love you, Dad."

"Hey," America said, with a fond crooked smile. "Ditto, kiddo."

* * *

><p>Alaska stuck his head under the faucet, washing away the shampoo from his hair. "All done?" asked his dad as he strolled into the bathroom holding a stack of towels fresh and hot from the dryer.<p>

"Yep," said Alaska cheerfully, pushing wet hair from his face. "I even got behind my ears."

"That's my good boy," America said, lifting him from the bathtub and wrapping him in a towel. Alaska giggled as his dad rubbed him from his shoulders to the top of his head, making damp tendrils of hair stick up everywhere. His dad put the rest of the towels in the cabinet while Alaska tugged on his pajamas.

"Dad," Alaska said as America swept him up into his arms and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Dad... do you love Mr. Japan?"

America almost choked at that. "Wh-why do you ask?"

Alaska chewed at his lower lip. When he was very little, he had hoped that Mr. Japan would come to stay, and they could all live together and be a family just like on television. But Mr. Japan had never treated him with anything other than politeness, and slowly Alaska came to understand that he would always just be _Hawaii's_ dad, not his, too. But he was hesitant to tell his dad all of this - want if Dad _wanted _Mr. Japan to come live with them one day? Alaska didn't want to make him upset. "Well, you and Mr. Japan have Hawaii. And, um, don't you need love to have a baby?"

America strolled from the bathroom into the living room in silence, as though taking his time to come up with an answer. "I care a lot about Japan, but I don't love him the way I love you and your brothers and sisters. We're not _in_ love, forever love." He sat Alaska down on the floor then began fiddling with the radio on the shelf.

"But you do need love to have a baby? Right?"

America licked his bottom lip, a habit he only had when he was asked a question he didn't want to answer. "No, kiddo. You don't need love to make babies," he admitted finally. He twisted the dial until he came to a station still playing Christmas music.

This revelation made Alaska's chest tighten. He gulped for a deep breath, all at once wanting America's comfort but also not wanting his dad to notice his distress. "Does - does that mean you don't love my papa?" he asked.

America went still, his hands braced on the wall on either side of the shelf. Suddenly it seemed like the clock ticked very loudly; Alaska stood quietly, regretting his question. At last, his dad turned and knelt next to him, one hand on Alaska's shoulder. "Son... your father and I, we... we don't always get along. But I will always be so grateful to have you. So, yeah, I love him for giving you to me. Okay?"

"Okay," said Alaska in a whisper of a voice. America kissed him on the forehead even as Bing Crosby's voice melted on the last lyric of "I'll Be Home For Christmas."

"Heh," his dad said, standing and reaching for the radio. "That reminds me - your father's Christmas will be in a couple of days. Crazy Russkies with their crazy calendars."

Alaska yawned and said, "I'm going to bed, dad."

"Do you want me to tuck you in?"

Alaska shook his head and smiled lopsidedly. "Nah, I can do it." He padded back to his room and climbed into bed, where Ivan-bear was waiting for him, perched on a pillow. Down the hall, he could hear America switching between scratchy, static-filled radio stations, before finally settling on one playing something that sounded faintly like Sinatra. Sighing, Alaska pulled Ivan-bear close and curled up in the cool sheets. Instead of singing along with Sinatra, he began murmuring, very low and softly to himself, _"...if only in my dreams..."_

The morning after his birthday, Alaska awoke with a plan.

If his papa couldn't come to see him - and America couldn't send him to Russia - why couldn't he meet with Russia in secret? He thought it over during breakfast and the plan just seemed better and better. The Communists couldn't keep him if they never knew he was there.

The biggest problem, of course, was that there was no way he could just sneak off to the Soviet Union without his dad finding out. Even a little kid like Hawaii knew that Russia lived far away and it would take many hours just to get to him, much less to get back. Alaska thought this part over while watching television with his sister. He knew without a doubt that America would never say yes to his plan, but then, didn't his dad always say it was better to ask forgiveness than ask permission?

Over the rest of the day, Alaska thought out every detail. He would take the balloon - there was plenty of room for him to ride inside, and he could program it to carry him to Moscow. The Commies would never see him coming in the balloon, and after he met Russia he could get back inside and take it home. He could fly away at night while America was asleep, leaving a letter behind explaining everything so his dad didn't worry. No matter how he looked at it, Alaska couldn't think of a flaw in his plan.

"Scoot over," Hawaii whined dramatically, pushing at her brother. "You're blocking the TV!"

"You sit too close to it," Alaska warned her ominously. "It'll make you go blind."

Hawaii rolled her eyes and then flopped down on her belly in front of the TV, placing a pad of paper and a fistful of crayons before her. Bored with cartoons, Alaska looked through the crumpled papers she'd already colored. Hawaii had drawn some cartoon characters - another page was covered in crudely-drawn horses, or maybe they were puppies - and then a magnificent family portrait of her holding hands with both America and Japan. Alaska knew it was them because Hawaii had drawn herself wearing her favorite flower-print dress. America was colored entirely in bright red, but he was the tallest and had a big smile. Japan wore one of his long dresses and was colored purple.

There was no Alaska in the picture.

Alaska carefully placed the drawing back in the pile of Hawaii's other drawings. His sister didn't notice; she was already hard at work on a picture of an elephant with wings. He quietly stood up and retreated to his room.

There Alaska found a small knapsack that he took with him when he and his dad went on hikes. He emptied it out and stuffed in a clean shirt and a compass. Then he went to the kitchen and made a couple of sandwiches, and added those to the knapsack, too.

"Alaska!" called his dad's voice from downstairs. "Come down for lunch!"

"Okay," he replied, sticking his head out of his bedroom door. "I'll be right there!" Alaska stashed the knapsack under the bed and then ran down to join his father and sister.

At the table, over a plate piled high with hamburgers, America asked his children, "You'll be back at school tomorrow. Feeling good about it?"

_I'll be in the Soviet Union tomorrow_, thought Alaska, but he chewed thoughtfully and swallowed before saying, "Yeah, really good."

Alaska waited until he was sure his dad and Hawaii were both safely asleep, and then he put his cunning plan into action.

First, to buy himself as much time as possible, he needed to make sure his dad slept in the next morning. He accomplished this by tip-toeing into America's room and unplugging the alarm clock. America was almost as heavy a sleeper as Uncle Canada, and it'd probably be nearly noon before he woke up on his own. Alaska placed a letter explaining the situation on the pillow next to America's head. He didn't want his dad to freak out or anything when he woke up and found him gone.

Alaska then carried his bear and knapsack into the garage and stowed them safely inside the ballon. Now came the hard part: getting the balloon out of the garage and getting it airborn.

Alaska, like all of America's children, had inherited some of his parent's superhuman strength, but even so he couldn't lift and carry a balloon as big as this. Instead, he first opened the garage door, then got behind the balloon and pushed it out onto the driveway. This took the better part of half an hour and left him sweaty and exhausted, but now there was room to inflate the balloon and an open sky to fly it in. He changed into a clean sweater and coat, put his mittens in his pocket, and climbed inside the balloon. The control panel was simple enough; Alaska typed in 'Moscow, Soviet Union', then flipped the switches marked 'Engage'.

He sat back and held his breath expectantly. For a few minutes all Alaska heard was the iwhir-whir/i of the engines cutting on, and then a sudden jerk as the balloon lifted into the air. Alaska yelped a little as the balloon scraped against the branches of a tree, but moments later they were too high for trees to be a nuisance. He peered out the tiny porthole and watched as his house got smaller and smaller and finally faded into the inky dark and the glare of electric lights. The balloon floated along, following a highway for a time and then went aloft over the ccean, and all Alaska could see was the perfect darkness of the Atlantic at midnight.

For the first hour or so, Alaska was too excited to sleep, but finally tiredness caught up to him. He made a little pallet with his coat and curled up, Ivan-bear beside him. As he dozed off, Alaska smiled and thought, _I wish I had some way to let my papa know I'm coming.._.

* * *

><p>America yawned and stretched, and after a few moments two things occured to him: first, that it was much too bright outside for seven in the morning, and secondly, that he had not been awakened by the wail of his alarm clock. He turned his head and blinked blearily in the direction of his clock, only to find that it was off. America picked it up, and found the plug dangling uselessly behind it. Groaning, he groped for his glasses, and having put them on, picked up his wristwatch from the bedside table and glared at it as though all this were its fault.<p>

His blue eyes went comically wide. "Eleven forty-five!" he said aloud. "Oh man, the kids are so late for school." He'd have to drop them off before going to his office, and now he was behind on paperwork, too. Great, just great.

America sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes. Something crinkled next to him, and he looked down to see a folded piece of paper caught between the pillow and the quilt. He plucked it out, then opened it up and scanned the page. He reached the end of the message, then went back and reread it again more quickly.

In Alaska's blocky little-kid scrawl, it read:

_Dear Dad,_

_I took the baloon ballon balune to see my papa in the Soviet Union. Dont be mad. I wasnt kidnapped or anithing. I will be back tomorro._

_Love,_

_Alaska_

America screamed.

* * *

><p>When Alaska awoke and peered out of the porthole to see land, the sun was already hanging low over the horizon. He had chased the night across the ocean.<p>

Suddenly, the balloon pitched, and Alaska yelped and flailed for a handhold. What was wrong? The flight had been smooth across the Atlantic, and there wasn't a storm outside. Was something wrong with the balloon?

Alaska's stomach lurched as the balloon lost altitude. The intruments were going haywire, whirring and blinking, and Alaska could do nothing but grab Ivan-bear and brace for impact.

The balloon touched down with a solid bump, but after a moment Alaska lifted his head and realized that he was alive and unharmed. He opened the hatch and clambered out.

He had landed on a cliffside overlooking the crashing waves of the Atlantic. Dazed, Alaska turned to see a small cottage almost hidden behind a wall of flowering plants; the garden was much better maintained than the shabby but cozy looking house. It was the sort of cottage that grandmothers lived in on TV, Alaska thought.

The cottage door flew open and a man stormed out, swatting furiously at things Alaska couldn't see. He had yellow hair like America, but a different shade, and bushy eyebrows. Alaska was staring at him, anxiously trying to think of a reason that he had landed beside his cottage in a balloon, when the stranger said, "Shoo, you lot! Yes, I see the boy! Yes, I know he's America's! I should bloody well know, I saw him when he was just a toddler a few years ago. What was that - I shouldn't talk that way in front of a child? Bloody hell."

Alaska gawked at him. The stranger continued debating with thin air, barely glancing at Alaska ior/i his balloon.

"Um, 'scuse me," Alaska said, plucking at the stranger's sleeve. "Can you tell me where I am?"

"Where you are?" The stranger blinked at him, his invisible friends momentarily forgotten. "You landed in my tulip patch, that's where you are! Not that it's entirely your fault, mind, some of it was Thwistlewaite's doing..."

Alaska looked down and saw to his dismay that both he and his balloon were standing atop a bed of very crushed tulips. "I'm sorry," he said, flushing with embarassment. "I didn't mean to squash your flowers." He wondered who this 'Thwistlewaite' person was that the stranger was talking to, and how you spelled 'Thwistlewaite', anyway.

"Yes, well, your father shouldn't let you lot fly around in balloons," the stranger said as he sat down and regarded the sad remains of his tulips. "It took a lot of magic to keep these blooming all winter. Never mind that now - Thwistlewaite, tell the young gentleman you're sorry."

Several moments passed before Alaska hesitantly asked, "Wh-who're you talking to?"

"Thwistlewaite said he's sorry," the stranger informed him grandly. "And I'm talking to my fairies."

"Fairies?"

"Of course! Who do you think brought your balloon here?"

Fairies would've been Alaska's last guess, for sure. "What's your name, mister?"

"You don't know? Of course not, you were such a little thing last time I saw you. Goodness, but you grew to look like your father - I mean Russia of course, you like quite a bit like America, but there's no denying you're Russia's child. What _was _America thinking. Anyway, my name is England, part of the United Kingdom and all that." He tipped an imaginary hat to Alaska.

Alaska recognized the name; Mr. England had raised his dad years and years and years ago. "Um, may I use your bathroom? And maybe have a glass of milk?"

England eyed him up and down. "You need a cup of tea, that's what you need." He stood and dusted off his pants. "Come along, then. The WC is the second door on the right."

Alaska sat down and had a cup of tea with England, followed by something curious-looking that had probably once been seafood but was now jellied and gooey. Alaska hid most of it in his napkin. Even though the food was gross, Mr. England wasn't so bad, even though he kept pausing to fuss or gush at one of his fairies.

"Run along now," England told him after they'd washed up. "The fairies will let you fly off, I've made sure of that."

"Thank you for the dinner," Alaska told him solemnly. This was certainly the oddest dinner he'd ever had, and he had forty-nine brothers and sisters, so that was saying something. "Goodbye Mr. England, and goodbye to your... friends." He climbed back in his balloon and closed the hatch securely.

As the balloon rose into the air, England waved to Alaska, then startled a bit as his phone began to ring from inside the cottage. "I'm coming, I'm coming," he grumbled, stomping back inside. "No, Thwistlewaite, we're not going to 'keep' him. He's a boy not a puppy! Besides, can you imagine what Russia would think - well I bloody well can and it's not a pleasant thought -"

The phone rang insistantly.

"All right, all right! 'Ello... Bloody Yank, what do you want? What? What do you _mean_, he stole the balloon and left to find Russia...?"

* * *

><p>In his conference room in the White House, America sat slumped across a desk, his head buried in his arms.<p>

After reading Alaska's letter, he had rapidly cycled through several stages in quick succession: disbelief, shock, horror, and finally, utter panic. He'd had just enough presence of mind to call his eldest daughter, Virginia, to come over and keep Hawaii for him; he was in no shape to look after her. America had then rushed to the White House to inform his president and Alaska's governor of the state's disappearance.

"Ah, calm down now, Alfred," his president told him, clearly dismayed by America's uncharacteristically terrified expression. "I'm sure little Alaska will be all right. Besides, aren't all fifty of your children immortal?"

Tears spilled from America's eyes. "Fifty-three," he said.

"Pardon?"

"Fifty-three. I had fifty-three children."

His president blinked rapidly. "But there's only fifty states."

"I _had _fifty-three children." America's voice wavered. "We're not immortal, just... hard to kill. And if the Commies get their hands on him - if they _do_ anything to him - I d-don't know what I'm gonna do."

After that, there'd been nothing to do but start calling the others - his other states already knew about Alaska's disappearance, thanks to Virginia, and that meant that Canada and Mexico were the next to know, thanks to the children they had in common with America. The message had gotten somewhat garbled by the time it reached them, because Canada called America first, in a panic, thinking that Russia was trying to kidnap their children. Mexico responded by issuing an ominous warning that she would consider any threat against one of her children to be a threat against herself. It had taken America almost half an hour to talk her down.

In the midst of all that, America felt the link he shared with Alaska, the same link he shared with all his children, which meant that Alaska was alive. And then the link grew stronger, which meant that Alaska had made footfall somewhere... England. America had lurched for the phone, trying to dial England's number, which would've been easier had his hands not shook so much.

A near-miss - Alaska had just flown off again. America calculated that he had about four hours before Alaska and his balloon arrived in Moscow. And that meant there was only one person left to call.

America picked up the red telephone.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: The 53 children America refers to include, besides his 50 extant states, the defunct states of Franklin (1784-1788), Deseret (1849-1851), and Absaroka (1939)<em>.


	2. Chapter 2

Russia awoke with a start and breathed out frost. He'd fallen asleep sitting up in his chair again. He rubbed his eyes, weary and bewildered, then tapped at his chest. Hollow. He remembered what he had been dreaming, the words General Winter had told him once, not so long ago:

_Vanya, you have not carried your heart within your body for years now. Not since..._

No, he would not think on that.

The phone to his left rang wildly; had it been ringing all this time? Had it awakened him? Russia snatched up the phone and growled, "Amerika."

Silence on the other end. Russia would've hung up, thinking this some foolish prank, but he could hear America breathing over the line. At last, "Russia, just listen, okay?"

"Always I am listening," Russia reminded him in a cheerful tone that he in no way felt. "But you are saying so little of consequence, Amerika. You do not even tell me hello."

"Russia -" America's voice had a note of panic. Alarm flared through Russia's body. What had America done? Was this it? Would today be their last day beneath the skies? His body tensed in anticipation of America's next words.

"Russia, it's our son. Alaska."

_Alaska_. Russia griped the phone tighter. "What is being wrong with Aleksei?"

"He left home last night. To come find you." Something like a dam broke inside America, and the words came pouring out now. "I tried to catch him but I couldn't, and he'll be there soon, and he's coming to see you, and and and - he's so little, and if anything happens to him, or if you -" and America choked, as though too afraid to finish the sentence.

_If you don't give him back to me_.

"He is coming here? To Moscow? When?"

"ETA is about four hours." America sounded miserable. "I'm getting on a jet and heading your way in a few minutes."

"My boss will not be happy about this," Russia said.

"Damn your boss! This is our child we're talking about! I need to be there t-to explain things to him. Tell your boss whatever he needs to hear."

Russia twisted his scarf with his left hand. "My boss... he is not knowing about Aleksei."

Stony silence, followed by a flat, "What."

Russia sighed. "Of course he knows there is state of Alaska, the history of Russian America. But I did not tell him about the _child_. There is no need for him to know, da? It is making things so... complicated."

Hesitantly, America said, "So, this is between us for right now, right? I'll slip in nice and quiet, and you'll give Alaska back to me."

"How shall I be finding him?"

"I always just _know_," America admitted. "I close my eyes, try to sit still, and feel for them. And then I know right where they are. Maybe you'll feel him, too."

Russia abruptly hung up on him, then sat shock-still in his chair for a minute, his hands clasped before his face like a devotee praying to relics. Aleksei had been the only thing unspoken between them since the day of his birth. America had made it clear that Russia wasn't to come near him, and Russia knew it was safest not to involve the child in any of their struggles.

"But you have come to me, little one," he murmured to himself.

* * *

><p>Alaska fell back asleep as he glided over Europe, gently rocked to and fro, curled in his coat with Ivan-bear tucked under his chin. He was dreaming dreams of rich golden fields and blue glaciers and arms always outstretched in welcome when his stomach lurched and he awoke to find the balloon was pitching wildly.<p>

Alaska stuck out his arms and legs, bracing himself against the walls to prevent being flung around, but he could only watch helplessly as the balloon's instruments blinked and whirred. He was losing altitude.

Out the porthole he could see only grey, and Alaska knew his balloon had flown right into a snowstorm. He held his breath, shut his eyes, and hoped for a soft landing.

The storm sat him down in a snowdrift, gently as a mother laying her baby in the cradle. Outside the wind howled, but Alaska stayed snug inside and resolved to wait out the storm. He wasn't sure where he was, but he knew he had to have made it to Russia by now; he'd been in the air for _hours_.

The storm gave him time to think. His dad America must know he was gone by now; Alaska hoped he wasn't too mad. America didn't really get mad at them or spank them like human dads did, but Alaska knew he certainly wouldn't be happy about this. But it wasn't _fair_, thought Alaska, that all his brothers and sisters got to know their papas and he didn't. America had to understand that. And how would Russia know that Alaska loved him and missed him very much if he didn't tell him in person? Santa carried his letter every Christmas, but Alaska knew something had to be wrong because Russia never wrote back.

He dozed until the weak blueish light of dawn woke him again. The storm had lifted. Alaska clambered out of the balloon and stood blinking, looking for the first time upon his papa's country. Everywhere he looked he saw dark trees covered in snow, but heard not a sound in the world.

It was cold, blistering cold, but Alaska was of the North and the cold was a friend to him. He slipped on his mittens and knapsack and began trudging through the snow. Moscow was supposed to be a big city, wasn't it? There had to be people around somewhere. As he trotted to the top of a hill, Alaska's heart sank. Maybe his balloon hadn't made it to Moscow. Maybe it had landed in the wilderness, far from civilization, far from his papa.

"Ah, _vnuchek_, my little wanderer."

Alaska cried aloud and whirled, only to look up at the stern face of an old - ancient - man. He wore a strange helmet, and a cape that was blacker than any black Alaska had ever seen. His face and his hair were nearly colorless, and tiny icicles dangled from his mustache.

Alaska jerked so hard that he tumbled down onto his bottom and his feet peddled uselessly in the snow as he tried to push himself backwards. The stranger in the black-black cape watched him but made no move to touch him.

"I know who you are, winter's child," said the stranger. "Aleksei Ivanovich. Do not be afraid."

"How do you know my name?" Alaska blurted out.

"I have always known your name," the stranger told him solemnly. "I knew your lands long before your birth, and I know those that came before you, who inhabited your lands before it ever bore the name Alaska. Inuit. Aleut. Yupik. Haida. Tlingit. And the others. I know all winter's children."

Alaska knew that his dad was very old, much older than any human could ever hope to live. He also knew that England was much older than America. But he knew, in the deep part of himself that was not entirely human, that this stranger was primordial, that he had been old before England was born. His body shook from his legs to his ears.

"Who are you?"

"Your father calls me General Winter. You may call me Dedushka." And he offered a hand to Alaska.

Hesitantly, Alaska reached up to take his hand, and General Winter pulled him to his feet. Although his knees shook a little, Alaska tried to put on a brave face. "You know my papa?"

"All the days of his life," said General Winter somberly.

"Will you take me to see him?" After a moment Alaska added, "Please, Dedushka?"

The General knelt on one knee before him, and gently tapped his fist under Alaska's chin. "You will come to know him, _vnuchek_. And you may stay with us, forever."

Alaska gasped. "No! I can't! I have to go home."

General Winter furrowed his brow. "By all rights you are home. Are you not winter's child? Are you not the land of the polar night?"

Tears prickled in Alaska's eyes. His dad had warned him about this - could General Winter keep him here forever? Would he ever see his dad and his brothers and sisters again? Almost as bad, would America think that he had run away and never came back on purpose? He drew in a shakey breath and said, "But I-I love my family and I want to see them again. And I am the land of the midnight sun, too."

General Winter narrowed his eyes, but he did not look so much angry as sad. Slowly, he stood, his cape billowing and surrounding them both with its darkness. "So you are summer's child as well," he said. "This is so. Come with me, Aleksei Ivanovich, and I will take you to your father."

Alaska wiped at the tears that had frozen on his face. "And after that, can I go home?"

The General nodded. "But remember that I will walk beside you always, even when you cannot see me."

"So I'll never be alone?"

"You have never been alone. Your kind have never known loneliness. You can grow weak, yes, and become crippled, and even die. But you will never be alone."

General Winter led him through the forest, with Alaska following behind, walking in his footsteps. They walked in silence for some time before coming to a little clearing and finding there an icy grotto next to a small frozen stream.

"Remain here," the General told him, wrapping his cape around himself. "Your father will be along shortly to fetch you."

"You aren't going to stay with me until he comes, Dedushka?" Alaska asked him.

"This is something... he needs to do himself," General Winter told him, and his black cape covered his face and he disappeared into the shadows.

* * *

><p>Russia was leaning with his back against the wall of his office, eyes closed, head tilted back. Listening. Feeling. But all he sensed was emptiness, like peering into a well long gone dry and straining for a glimpse of light and listening for the whisper of water.<p>

His head fell forward and his eyes snapped open. "General," Russia said softly.

Obligingly, General Winter stepped forward from the shadows; as he walked, frost spread across the floor, scrawling intricate patterns on the walls. "Vanya, you are wasting time."

"Not now, General." Russia dragged his hands through his hair. "My son is missing. My heart is missing. I - I am feeling _nothing_."

"Ah, Vanya," sighed General Winter. "Always you are thinking I know nothing of fathers and sons. Your heart has not been wholly yours since the day Lyoshka was born. It has been walking around outside your body for more than eight years now. And he is waiting for you. Go to him."

Russia gaped at him, still braced against the wall as though needing it to hold him up. At last he managed to ask, "Where is he?"

"Think, Vanya. Where would your heart be?"

Russia almost tore the door down in his haste to leave his office. His feet pounded down the hall like his long-missing heartbeat. Bursting out the main entrance into the cold and wind, Russia ran up to the first vehicle he saw, wrenched the door open, and pulled out the officer driving it by the nape of the neck. He left the human sitting bewildered on the curb and climbed into the vehicle himself, barely pausing to growl, "I am not to be followed!" before speeding off.

Russia sped out of Moscow, down the highway, leaving the city far behind before turning off down a little used road, and then following that to a path used only by logging trucks. For the first time in a long time, Russia drove with purpose.

The car became mired down in the deep snowdrift, so Russia got out and ran the last quarter-mile. The snow reflected the dim light all around him, making the world glow softly. Bare trees waved their skeletal hands at him, while other trees groaned under their burdens of snow. Ahead of Russia was a little _dacha _he'd had built near the place where his sisters and he had lived, untold centuries before. In this little forest lived all his best memories of his past.

Russia slowed as he approached the little clearing. He could see a little figure, a spot of color in the whites and blacks and greys of the clearing, standing beside the iced-over stream and grotto. Now wading through snow up to his knees, Russia found he could go no further. For several long moments he stood, barely remembering to breath.

The little figure turned towards him, and Russia clearly saw the outline of a boy, and the boy's pale face surrounded by a hood. Having spotted Russia, the child began running towards him.

And for the first time in years, Russia felt his heart pound and blood rush to his face. "Aleksei," he cried weakly, and then with more force, "Aleksei!"

The child ran towards him, his arms held out to be picked up, calling, "Papa! I made it! I'm here! Papa!" He fought his way through the thick snow, but Russia was able to stumble forward and gather him into his arms.

Russia clutched him tightly with one arm, and with the other pulled back Alaska's hood, touching his hair, his face, his chin. Alaska's own two hands gripped the lapels of Russia's coat tightly. "Oh, my brave boy," Russia said, stroking his hand through Alaska's hair. "What are you doing here? How are you getting here?"

Although Alaska was smiling, tears ran down his cheeks. "I came by balloon!"

"By balloon?" Nothing seemed real anymore, so Alaska's reply only seemed mildly odd, as opposed to ridiculous. Russia couldn't tear his eyes away from the boy. His hair was ice-blond, like Russia's own, and fell long to his shoulders. Russia searched his face for familiar features, and recognized his nose, something of America in his mouth and chin. His eyes were blue, and Russia realized with a start that he'd been subconsciously hoping that Alaska would have inherited America's blue eyes.

He began carrying Alaska back to his _dacha_, the boy chattering away in his arms the entire way.

"And then I flew across the sea, and then I met Mr. England and squashed his flowers - it's okay though, I apologized - and then I got here, and met Dedushka, and-"

"Dedushka?" Russia marveled at this.

"Yeah! And then I saw you, and I was so excited-"

Russia fumbled with the door but managed to unlock it one-handed, and they stumbled into the musty _dacha_. He sat Alaska on a couch as he went to turn on the heat, keeping one eye on the boy at all times as though Alaska might disappear if he didn't watch him.

Alaska was still talking, pouring everything out at once, as though this might be his only chance to tell Russia what he needed to say. "And I love you so much! I know it's hard because the Commies won't let you be free, but my dad has told me all about how hard you're working to get away from them."

"Your... dad has told you this?" Russia asked, falling on his knees beside the couch. "What has Amerika been telling you?"

Alaska held out his stuffed bear proudly. "This is Ivan, we named him after you. He was my Christmas present this year. Oh yeah, dad's told me everything. I know you have to pretend to play along, or else they might hurt people. It's okay, papa, really it is." Alaska's eyes were very large and sincere, as though _he _was trying to comfort Russia.

Russia's head swam. "Aleksei, I am n-" He cut himself off. "I am so happy for you to be here. I am wishing it was under other circumstances. But you are not imagining how long I have dreamed of this day."

Alaska wrapped his arms around Russia's neck and clung to him. "It was worth it," he sobbed. "It was all worth it to see you!"

* * *

><p>Alaska's papa helped him pry off his shoes, and then tucked them underneath a table piled high with Alaska's coat, mittens, knapsack, and bear.<p>

Finally freed of his shoes, Alaska wiggled his toes and asked, "Is this where you grew up, papa?"

His papa paused in the act of sheding his own coat, and stood for a moment with the coat half on and half off. "Da," he said, and then added, "Yes, not in this house of course, but near here. I lived here for many years with my sisters." He hung up his coat but kept his scarf on.

Alaska peered around curiously at the furnishings, a shelf of books with the titles in Russian letters, the faded and chipping paintings of sad-eyed people hanging on the walls. When Alaska looked back to his papa, Russia was watching him and plucking at his scarf.

"What do you think, Lyoshka?"

"It feels like home," Alaska told him. When he heard this, Russia's shoulders slumped a little, as though breathing a sigh of relief. Alaska felt a little bad; he had spent so much time imagining what Russia would think of him that he hadn't even once thought that Russia might be afraid of what Alaska thought of _him_. Quickly, he asked, "What does that word mean? Lyoshka?"

Russia sat beside him again, brushing Alaska's hair back from his face. Alaska leaned into his father's touch. "Lyoshka is a nickname for Aleksei. Does Amerika call you by a nickname?"

"Sometimes he calls me Alek," Alaska said, smiling brightly up at his papa. "But usually just around humans. He says its weird for them if we call each other by our nation names in public."

"And he is letting you keep your hair so long?" Russia asked, playfully ruffling Alaska's hair as he said so.

Alaska giggled. "I don't want it cut! It represents the Aleutian Islands."

Russia chuckled along with him, but his chuckle faded and he said, very softly, "You arrived almost in time for my Christmas. But I was not knowing you were coming. I have no gifts for you here."

"Christmas..." Alaska's eyes went wide. "Oh! Did Santa bring you my letter?" He grabbed at Russia's sleeve. "He promised he would! He promised!"

"I have your letter, Lyoshka," Russia assured him. "I am having all your letters."

Alaska's face suddenly felt very hot, and there was a lump in his throat that he couldn't swallow. "B-but why didn't you write back?" Alaska's mouth twitched as he tried to hold back his old hurt. "I never got any letters."

Abruptly, Russia lept to his feet, and Alaska flinched back, thinking that he had said something wrong and made his papa angry. But instead, Russia took his hand and led him down the hall. Russia stopped, knelt to the floor, and pried up a piece of wood, revealing a secret compartment hidden under the floor. Inside was a box, which Russia presented to Alaska to open.

Mystified, Alaska popped off the lid, and found envelopes tied with string. He recognized the first few as _his_ letters, the ones Santa had carried to Russia for him every Christmas, and there were even a couple of letters in his dad's handwriting (America's handwriting was unmistakeable; he wrote in a big loopy scrawl with lots of extra exclamation points). But underneath those were more letters, all addressed to Alaska, not just eight for the eight Christmases he'd seen come and go, but more, much more. There were _dozens _of letters, some dated this year and some dated back to 1958, before Alaska was even born.

"You wrote to me?" Alaska stared up at his papa. "Why didn't you send them?"

"I... did not think it was being desired," Russia admitted. He avoided his son's eyes. "Amerika and I were not speaking to one another. So I saved them... for a time when you and I would be able to meet. I was not hoping it would be so soon."

Alaska sat cross-legged with the letters in his lap, his head swimming with so many thoughts and emotions that he didn't know what to do. He didn't realize he was crying until teardrops began falling onto the paper, and he cried out in dismay, thinking he had smudged them. He began frantically wiping away the tears.

Russia sat beside him and put an arm around Alaska, pulling the boy closer to him. Alaska snuggled into his side, letting his tears soak into the soft fabric of Russia's shirt.


	3. Chapter 3

Father and son spent the evening together preparing _kasha_ in the kitchen. The meal Russia set out was very odd - the buckwheat porridge, which Alaska loved; caviar sandwichs, something Alaska had never seen before in his life and which made his eyes go comically wide; and glass jars of preserves, each tried one bite at a time.

"_Solienye griby_," said Russia, offering Alaska a spoonful.

Alaska chewed, then grinned. "Good! What is it?"

"Pickled mushrooms," Russia translated for him. He unscrewed another jar and spooned out something he declared was, "_Varenye_."

Alaska gamely tried that, too. "Wow, even better! Are those strawberries, papa?"

"Strawberry preserves," said Russia, and he swallowed a spoonful himself. "My sisters and I love this. Little sister's favorite is _povidlo_, what you are calling apple jam. Big sister's favorite is plums. But my favorite is always strawberries."

Alaska licked his lips. "Dad's favorite is strawberries, too."

Russia screwed the lids back onto the jars. "Your... dad, what is he saying about me?"

That question gave Alaska pause; he cocked his head to one side and pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Well," he began, "mostly he talks about the Commies a lot, and how they're so mean and ruin everything. And how they make everyone in Russia hungry and sad."

"Everyone in Russia is being hungry and sad?" repeated Russia.

"Yeah, because they have to, y'know, stand in lines all the time. But he told me not to worry, because one day you'd escape from them and be free." Alaska brightened as he said this. "And that you really love us but you have to keep it a secret so the Commies don't find out." Really, what America had told him was "Your papa really loves you", but Alaska had changed it to include them both to make it sound more hopeful.

"Amerika says these things?" Russia's voice was so soft and low that Alaska felt sorry for him. His papa must be so afraid of the Commies overhearing that he could barely say the words aloud. It must be so scary being a grown-up and being so old and powerful and still having to watch what you say.

Wanting to make him feel better, Alaska tugged at Russia's sleeve. "Papa, can you keep a secret?" he asked.

"Da, of course," said Russia, pressing their forehead together so that Alaska could whisper it to him.

Alaska told him in hushed tones, "Dad told me that he doesn't love Mr. Japan, not like forever love. So you don't have to worry about him. I think Dad secretly loves you back but he just can't tell you yet."

Russia's eyebrows arched up and he blinked rapidly. "Ah... I see." He sat back in his chair and looked a little bewildered and sad. He pinched the spot between his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, as though trying to will away a headache, and Alaska hopped up out of his chair, meaning to find him some aspirin, but Russia caught him up in his arms and held him close.

They stayed like that for a long time, Alaska listening to the steady beat of Russia's heart in his great broad chest, while Russia buried his nose in Alaska's hair. From faraway they could hear the rumble of an approaching engine.

"I think that is your dad," Russia said, and his breath was warm in Alaska's hair. He stood up, still holding Alaska in his arms, and they made their way to the front door.

They heard the engine before they saw the headlights burning through the gloom. America rode a battered but rugged GAZ Jeep; Russia glared balefully at it, and wondered who had lent to it him. Poland? Belarus? No, it must've been Lithuania. Perhaps America had landed in his airspace, too.

America jumped out of the vehicle and began running towards them, making soft sounds that were not quite pants and not quite sobs, but some sad mixture of both. Russia shifted Alaska onto his hip, letting America see him more clearly. He was not precisely afraid of America, but Russia had seen America pick up steel railroad rails and twist them into heart-shapes to impress human girls many years ago. Russia was not so foolish as to clutch Alaska and make America panic.

Alaska wriggled with excitement at seeing his parent. "Dad!" he called.

"Ohmygod," America said all in the rush, as he ran up and pulled Alaska from Russia's arms. "You're safe! You almost gave me a heart attack."

Alaska wound his arms around America's neck. "I'm sorry, Dad. I didn't mean to scare you." He looked into America's eyes. "I'm in big trouble, aren't I?"

America released a strained little laugh. "Kiddo, this is so much worse than the time you told Hawaii that Satan lived in the pipes and she wouldn't take a bath for a week and a half. But right now, I'm just glad you're okay." He kissed Alaska on the lips and said, "Hey, you taste like strawberries!"

Russia cleared his throat. "It is dark, and late," he told America. "I am thinking it is best you both stay here for the night. With me."

America held Alaska tightly to him. "I have a helicopter waiting for me," he said.

Pointing to the GAZ Jeep, Russia said, "Ah, and you are meaning to drive all through the night with our son, in the freezing cold and the darkness, in that?"

America's eyes flickered up and down suspiciously. He had never been good at concealing his thoughts or emotions. He shifted from side to side almost imperceptibly, and finally said, "Do you have a telephone in there?"

"Of course," Russia said, opening the door grandly. America carried Alaska inside, with Russia following behind. Once inside, they stamped the ice from their boots and Russia hung his and Alaska's coats up. America tossed his own coat over a chair.

Having both his parents together in the same room seemed to light Alaska up like a livewire. He began chattering about his trip and his time with Russia. It was amusing to watch America try to follow along as his son told him about meeting "Dedushka, who wears this funny helmet, and he brought me here, but then he disappeared, and my papa came..."

Russia sat on the couch and observed them quietly. America listened to their son, sometimes stroking his hands through Alaska's hair, then cradling the back of his head, while Alaska leaned into his touch with perfect trust. Russia lightly bit down on his own knuckle.

By the time Alaska finished with his tale, he had exhausted himself. A clock chimed, and he yawned hugely. "It's time for bed," America told him, and Alaska only protested half-heartedly when America picked him up.

"He can sleep in my bed," Russia said softly, and America followed him into the small bedroom with the dark curtains and a bed piled high with pillows and blankets. America laid Alaska in the middle, then sat beside him, lightly caressing his son's face. Russia lingered in the doorway, still watching but not knowing what to say.

Alaska yawned again, then smiled up at America and then at Russia. His eyelids were becoming too heavy for him. He said, "I'm so glad I came, papa." And then he fell asleep.

America seemed to wait to be sure that Alaska was fully asleep before standing and stalking out of the bedroom. He pushed past Russia, grumbling under his breath. "I can't freakin' believe - ugh, where is your _phone_!" America stood in the center of Russia's living room, shoulders hunched and hands clenched into tight fists.

Wordlessly, Russia held up the phone receiver. America snatched it away from him and turned his back, obviously trying to hide the numbers he was dialing. Russia sighed. No phone call made it in or out of this dacha without being recorded.

America mumbled a few sentences to his contact, confirming that they would meet up - _with Alaska_, America emphasized - bright and early in the morning. Then he slammed the phone down and thrust it back into Russia's hands.

Russia sat the phone aside and mockingly rubbed his wrists, as though America's childish behavior had caused him physical pain. "Ouch! So much hostility towards your host, Amerika. Didn't England teach you better manners than that?"

Normally, America would be all ready with a quip or comeback, but right now he was too angry to be bothered. "What have you been telling him?" he hissed, pointing at the door to Russia's bedroom.

Russia loomed over him, his mouth twisting in an ugly manner. "What have _you_ been telling him, Amerika? You've filled the child's brain with all sorts of stories, I see."

America flinched; it was a movement so small that if Russia hadn't been used to scrutinizing America's face, he would've missed it. The angry flush that colored America's cheeks an instant later could've been seen from orbit, however.

"You've painted me as quite the dashing hero," Russia said, arching his eyebrows. "It is being like something from fairy stories. I was not expecting such treatment, Amerika. Surely, I thought, you would be telling him I had horns and a pitchfork."

"Nah, just a stupid hammer and sickle," America snapped back with some of his usual bravado. He crossed his arms. "What was I supposed to tell him, huh? He _worships_ you, Russia. Since he could talk, he's been begging me for stories about you, stuff from your country, just anything about you. I couldn't tell him the _truth_."

Russia barked out a mirthless, bitter laugh. "The truth? And what is being the truth? That you kept me away from our child all these years?" he asked.

"You've been holding the whole world hostage!" America said, pushing back into Russia's space. "And it's not like you gave a damn. You didn't write, you didn't call -"

"You pushed me away!" Russia snarled, shoving America back a step or two.

Much to his surprise, America didn't come back swinging. Instead, his eyes went wide and shocked. "What? What did you say?" he asked.

Russia gritted his teeth. As though America could've forgotten!

Russia had spent years hovering around China, trying to touch him, only to realize at long last that the last person to truly _touch_ China had left a scar on him. Bitter and angry, Russia foolishly turned to the one person he _knew_ he could always touch - America, who saw him as a rival and not as future scar tissue. But no sooner had he felt America's warmth than America pushed him away, ran away and hid, holding a part of both of them deep within himself.

America shook his head when Russia told him this. "I don't remember it that way," he said. "Y'know, all those years we were friends, and we never went any further. Heh. You remember when we were friends? Yeah, sometimes I can't, either." His face contorted with the pain of old emotion and the sting of betrayal. Russia knew that look, for he saw it often enough in the mirror.

"Do you think..." America wondered aloud. "Do you think if Alaska had been born a hundred years ago, we'd be where we are now?"

"Did your other children stop you from warring with their fathers?"

"No, but I never - never mind." America sighed loudly. "Look, it was scary right around the time Alaska was born. The world was on edge."

"You needed comfort, da?" Russia mocked him. "So you climbed in bed with Japan only days after our son was born."

America had the grace to look a little uncomfortable at that. "I had to do something to take my mind off you!" he said.

"And what is _that_ meaning?" Russia said in a dangerous low tone.

"What the hell do you think it means, Commie!" America jumped up back in his face. "You -" but his words were cut off as Russia grabbed him by the jaw and pulled him close for a punishing kiss.

America kissed him back with more ferocity than passion, all lips and tongue and teeth, and Russia felt the heat rise in himself, felt his heart pounding a steady, throbbing beat in his veins. He pressed forward, needing the feeling of America's body against his own, but when he backed America against the table, America shoved him off.

America leaned against the table, wiping at his mouth. "That could've been... a big mistake."

"Da," Russia panted. He tugged at his shirt, not wanting to give away how strongly that kiss had affected him.

America chuckled and said huskily, "But our last mistake like that turned out pretty awesome, didn't it?"

Russia glanced at the door to his bedroom. "Our son is beautiful." He smiled to himself, one of his rarest smiles, a small, gentle smile. "You named him Aleksei, as I asked."

America nodded. "I always wondered about the name. That's the only thing you asked of me when I told you about him, that I name him Aleksei. Why?" he asked.

"I have had several princes named Aleksei," Russia said slowly. "Their fates were... tragic. I suppose I was hoping our son would have the long and glorious life denied to them."

The look America shot him was both curious and a little disturbed, but Russia felt like he was breathing freely for the first time in years. At last, they were saying some of the things they'd been needing to say for so long.

After their confrontation, both fell into uneasy silence. America went into Russia's bedroom to check on Alaska; Russia let him go. He was not Japan, to follow America faithfully like a dog for years on end. Instead, he sat in his study, holding Alaska's small mittens in his hands, marveling over them.

All those years ago, when he'd learned Alaska was to be born, Russia had rarely felt so alone. America would communicate only in letters or through wire, and then in monosyllables. The rest of the nations had cringed away in terror, or simply held their breaths, waiting for this to be the spark that lit the powderkeg. And China - Russia had seen other nations look on him with pity, or anger, or fear - but he had never seen such a look of contempt as the one China gave him. He had betrayed his principles. He had forever shackled himself to his opposite number, America.

There had been no one to congratulate him. No one to tell of his excitement, with whom to share his imaginings of what Alaska would be like, what he would look like. It had felt very much like no one but America and himself had _wanted_ Alaska.

* * *

><p>America was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching the steady rise and fall of Alaska's chest, when he heard the door creak behind him. "Hey, Ivan," he said without looking up, rubbing at his weary eyes.<p>

Russia approached and sat on the other side of the bed. In sleep, Alaska sprawled out, one arm tossed over his head, hair mussed, as relaxed and wild as America when _he_ slept. Russia gently brushed a knuckle against Alaska's cheek. "Our son will be a much handsomer man than you or I ever were," he murmured.

America nodded. "He's gonna be tall, too. Maybe taller than either of us." Right now, his tallest children were New York and New Jersey, who both took after the man who had fathered them - and that was not England, although England claimed them and named them.

Despite opinions to the contrary, America was not a fool. He was idealistic, and sometimes naive, and often brash and insensitive, but he was not foolish. He had not believed that babies fixed anything for centuries, not since Virginia was born. He had thought she would keep England there with him, but England doted over her, bought her beautiful things and named her after his queen, and then turned around and boarded his ship and sailed far away. America had been left behind, a child with a child.

He'd _known_ that having Alaska wouldn't magically make things right between him and Russia. The moment that he had felt that _spark_ inside him, while Russia still lay over him, heavy and panting and brutal, had been one of the most terrifying moments of America's life. He'd wrenched himself away from Russia and run away, and didn't look back.

He'd spent nine months anticipating certain doom. He hadn't borne a living child since Arizona in 1912, and sure enough, he suffered a near-miscarriage that summer. Alaska's birth had been torturous, and then Alaska had come out so blue and so quiet. A smile touched America's lips. If only he could go back in time and console his past-self - _Don't worry, it's not going to be a disaster. It's just Alaska._

"Look at him," he said to Russia suddenly. His smile spread until America was beaming. "Perfect just the way he is," America said proudly. "And then some."


	4. Chapter 4

A ray of sunlight touched Alaska's face, making him wrinkle his nose. He cracked an eye open, and for a moment didn't remember where he was. The blanket smelled different, and the shadows were all wrong. But then he rolled over and found America laying next to him on the right. Alaska looked to his left and found Russia there, sleeping on his belly with his face buried in the pillow.

Feeling his son stir, America stretched. "G'morning," he yawned. He sat up, scratching the back of his neck. Alaska giggled. His dad looked funny all sleepy with his blue jeans still on and one sock mysteriously missing and the other barely clinging to his foot. "I'm gonna try to scare up some breakfast in your papa's Commie kitchen," America told him. "You stay here, okay?"

"After breakfast -" Alaska cut himself off, not wanting to hear the answer, but knowing, inevitably, what it had to be.

America sighed. "Yeah, kiddo. We have to go. I'm sorry."

"I know," Alaska whispered. He snuggled closer to Russia as America padded off towards the kitchen. He clung to these fleeting seconds where the pillows were still warm and held the indentations of their heads. All this was going to end soon.

"Lyoshka."

Alaska looked up to see Russia peering at him; perhaps Russia hadn't been asleep after all. "Yes, papa?"

Russia drew a deep breath. "Lyoshka, I... You cannot know how long I've been so alone. If you knew how happy you are making me. Just to see you. To be hearing your voice. To know that you are coming so far to find me. You must be going home today. You know this, Lyoshka. But do not be sad. We will see one another again soon, it is a promise. So be brave for me."

Alaska gulped down a knot in his throat. "I'll try, papa."

"That is all I can ask," Russia told him. He pressed their foreheads together, so close that his eyelashes brushed Alaska's face.

* * *

><p>"Ah hah! Someone decided to wake up!"<p>

Both Russia and Alaska blinked at him sleepily, and it didn't escape America that they had identical befuddled expressions when newly awoken. He shoved a couple of plates at them. "Here ya go - I was able to make some kinda pancakes with the weird stuff in this kitchen."

Russia eyed his plate suspiciously, but Alaska, ever the optimist, took a big bite. America gulped down his own pancakes, barely tasting them, too busy keeping an eye on Russia and their child. He was _not_ looking forward to the inevitable parting.

After they ate breakfast, Alaska helped Russia carry the plates to the sink and rinse them off. America went into the study to collect their things. When he came back, he paused in the kitchen doorway, loaded down with shoes and a backpack and Ivan-bear. Russia knelt beside Alaska and whispered something into his ear that America couldn't quite hear.

Alaska began giggling happily. "Really?" he asked Russia.

"Really," Russia told him solemnly. "But you can't tell him yet. I want to be the one to be telling him."

"Okay, papa," Alaska replied. He trotted over to America, reaching out for his things.

"What did he tell you?" America asked, brow quirking in Russia's direction. Russia looked on with an air of childlike innocence.

"Daaaaad," Alaska said in a self-righteous tone. "It's a _secret_."

America glared at Russia. "What did you tell our son?"

"The truth," Russia said sweetly.

When America began dressing Alaska in his coat and mittens, Russia sank into the coach and watched in silence. Alaska's face went white, and he fell into a hush, but Russia was glad to see that he bore up like a brave little soldier. He was thankful, too; he could not have stopped himself from breaking down if Alaska had dissolved into tears and wailing.

Russia spent these last moments trying to think of something to say, something that was neither too curt nor would confuse or upset the child. But his mind was irritatingly blank, like the grey snow of a dying television set. He couldn't think clearly, only feel, and the warm secret core of him did not wish to be left here alone.

_But that is the way of this life_, Russia thought to himself, heart heavy with the weight of the past. _Good things are born, then they are taken from me. And when something good is given, there is no sense in wishing for more._ And yet his heart knew no logic.

He followed America and Alaska outside, and stood in the doorway with Alaska while America cranked up the Jeep. "Lyoshka," Russia said thickly, and he drew a deep breath. Holding Alaska's small hand in his own, he went on, "Always be remembering that I have been dreaming of you since before you were born."

Alaska swallowed, then said, "I will, papa. I love you." He kissed Russia on the cheek, and then America swept him up in his arms and sat him in the Jeep's passenger-side seat. He remained seated, but twisted around so that he could see Russia, his stuffed bear clutched in his arms.

Now it was America who stood before Russia. He licked his chapped lips, an unconsciously nervous gesture, and said, "Hey, Russia, this... was kinda not what I planned, but I'm glad that it happened. This way, I mean."

"And what way is that being?" Russia asked him.

"You know." America made a vague hand motion. "As painless as possible, I guess."

"Painless," Russia repeated in a dull tone. His eyes flickered to the little boy watching them anxiously. "That is not what I would call it."

"C'mon, you know what I mean," America said, frowning at him. His voice dropped lower. "I don't regret any of it. Not this. Not _any_ of it."

Russia got the impression that America was not just talking about the last couple of days. "Pain is still emotion," Russia said philosophically. "What hurts us, causes us to feel. As for regrets... I could never be regreting our child. Or anything that led to his birth."

A half-smile brightened up America's face, and he ducked his head, letting his unruly blond hair fall into his eyes.

Russia rocked back on his heels. "Oh, and by the way, Amerika - thank you for the generous gift of the spy balloon prototype - ah, pardon me, it is offically a weather balloon, no? So clumsy of me to get them confused." He smirked.

America laughed and scratched at the back of his neck sheepishly. "Oh, yeah, about that. Tony designed this really interesting metal alloy - it's out of this _world_. Designed to be undetectable, untraceable, and self-destructing." He made a show of pulling back his sleeve to look at his watch. "Yeah, it's melted into goo by now."

Russia's smirk fell.

"Bye Russia!" America called out, before climbing into the Jeep and putting it into drive. Alaska began waving as the vehicle pulled away. Russia lifted a hand in farewell.

He stood and watched until they faded into a little dot in the wintry distance, then watched until they disappeared from sight altogether.

* * *

><p>Alaska sat in his seat very straight, Ivan-bear riding in his lap, trying not to move or talk or think too much. His dad made enough noise for the both of them.<p>

"Wait till you meet Mr. Lithuania, he's the nicest guy, you'll love him -"

Something warm touched Alaska's cheek, and it wasn't until the back of his mittened hand brushed his cheek that he realized he was crying. He clenched his eyes shut, but he couldn't stop the roiling sadness within him.

"- but he has the weirdest taste in women, sweartogod, and -"

Alaska choked out a sob.

"Huh? Alaska!" America stopped the Jeep and leaned across the seat to his son. "Why are you crying?"

Alaska's mittens were soaked in tears. "I p-promised him I'd be brave," he said miserably. He had tried _so hard_ not to cry. "I just... I was so happy getting to meet papa."

"Oh, kiddo, you are brave," soothed America, pulling him into a tight embrace. "It's okay. Sometimes I cry, too. Sometimes I laugh just to keep from crying." His own voice wavered a bit.

Alaska clasped his arms around his dad's neck, Ivan-bear crushed between them. There was so much he wanted to say - how much he loved America, and how much he loved Russia, and how overwhelming the adventure had been and the ancipation and the delight of getting _more_ than he'd anticipated, of having a backpack full of letters from a papa who'd dreamed about him every night of his life, and having the memory of Russian strawberries on his tongue, and hearing a voice with a foreign and beautiful accent beseeching him to _be brave_ and _remember_ - but when he tried to speak no words would come out. So he settled for clinging to America. 

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry for scaring you."

"S'okay, kiddo. I forgive you. You're still grounded though."

"For how long?"

"Forever."

"Dad! I won't live forever."

"How do you know? Maybe you will."

"Do you think it's possible?"

"Anything's possible."

"Even -"

"Even what?"

A sigh. "I can't tell you."

"Why not?"

"I promised papa."

"... Is it important?"

"Nothing more important."

"Then come 'ere and whisper it in my ear."

"I can't! He wants to tell you himself."

A groan of frustration. "Your papa is so weird, Alaska."

"Dad, your best friend is an alien."

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

Giggle. "Nothing, dad. Hey... do you really believe anything's possible?"

"Me and Russia made _you_. Anything is officially possible."

* * *

><p>Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body - Elizabeth Stone<p> 


End file.
